


Thrones

by Peacockery



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Coercion, M/M, Manipulation, Other, Roughness, Threats of Violence, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peacockery/pseuds/Peacockery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not every privilege is given without sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrones

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at trying to get back into writing after a long break. So, this drabble is...short. But, I am considering adding more in the future, if need be. :>
> 
> Takes place after the confrontation with Sniper, I suppose?

The Classic Heavy was overwhelmingly huge. Even with his own strong gait and healthy appetite, Medic found himself being able to comfortably perch on one trunk-sized expanse of thigh, averting his gaze to any other trivial thing in the room to avoid making contact with the wolfish gaze staring down at him. A meaty hand was petting heavily through his hair, and he hated how it soothed him enough to being impassively kneading on the slabs of muscle beneath the old BLU’s chest.

 

“Enjoying yourself, princess?”

 

Medic turned his head just slightly enough to watch him tensely out of the corner of his eye. Heavy was reclining like a king in his customized armchair, one hand curled over the edge of the armrest while its partner stroked the German as if he were a prized housepet. Flashing a cruel grin, he rumbled again.

 

“You like sitting in papa’s throne, don’t you?”

 

He dug his fingers deep into a clump of inky hair and yanked sharply. Medic yipped out, almost tearing out patches of baby blue on the opposing wifebeater as he was now being forced to look at him; it was humiliating (a concept once foreign to him), to know that the tiny indulgences that his old lover had treated him to were quickly being ripped out to the glee of his tormentor. And gentle this Heavy was not- his fingers curled deeper and tighter against his scalp until his crown went numb and tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes. Medic wrenched them shut to save his pride, though he channeled his tension out on the sharp clawing, latex against cotton against massive pectorals.

 

“Nngf.”

 

“It was all that he would voice, as logic would be insulted by the brute and pitiful panderings would no doubt sow fresh seeds of cruelty. But he was a doctor and a mercenary, gott verdammt. The horrors of war were but a storybook to him. He had been shot at, stabbed, burned, crushed, lost fingers, gained teeth, switched organs and performed Lovecraftian surgeries on the war front using parts and voodoos even his own genius couldn’t comprehend. This right here was child’s play, and he was insulted. Eyes brighter than absinthe opened up to challenge, and he snorted vehemently. It was the classic dance they stepped to many times before- the tyrant and the war horse he rode in on, and the German’s back had been broken enough. The Heavy regarded him for a moment, before his lip twitched and formed into a violent sneer.

 

Large fingers slipped from their grip on his hair to clamp down tight around his jaw, but Medic held his intense look and fierce pout when the larger merc closed in on him; his teeth bared at the stench of whiskey and beef on the other’s breath.

 

“I’m sorry,” The Classic growled softly, “but I don’t speak little bitch.”

 

He shook Medic’s face sharply before releasing him, his own turning thoughtfully towards the ceiling.

 

“You know, sweetheart, I am beside myself.” He slowly took to rubbing along the doctor’s thigh (much to the other’s chagrin) while he cupped at his own chin. “I should be on top of the world. I have a good job, a sturdy team, adventure, glory...and yet, I have a project on my hands.” Even with the coverage of those tinted goggles, Medic grimaced at the eating thought that he was being stared at. And, true enough, his unease grew when the brute slowly rolled his head back to eye level. “And I **hate** projects.”

 

The German jumped again when both of his knees were grabbed and he was yanked forward, now sitting flush in the Classic’s lap with no chance of escape. His proud resolve began to crumble when he took into consideration as to how strong this monster really was: his own Heavy was a gentle giant beyond his sheer power, but the Classic could very well break his legs with a flick of his wrists if he just so desired. Medic was no stranger to pain, but even his streaks were limited to his comforts. With a broken medigun and dwindling supplies, he doubted his masochistic endurance would last through the night if he played the wrong cards. So, he furrowed his brows and tightly pursed his lips again, wiggling uncomfortably under the suffocating hold.

 

Heavy’s voice was low, and it was more unnerving in this moment than his usual belting snarls. “I like contracts. Simple, and I know what I am getting in the end.” The grips shifted from bony knees to sensitive thighs, though he did not purr this time when the forceful pleasantries spurred the RED to whimper and plant both hands back onto a sturdy chest. “I hate projects, because I have to waste my time babysitting little contributions that are worth less than the filth on my boots.” He growled and moved his hands again, drawing a pained squeal from white-kunckled squeezes on the doctor’s vulnerable ass. While Medic pawed and wiggled uselessly within his fleshy cage, the Classic trained his gaze forward and beyond the chair for the briefest of moments before he drifted in close to Medic’s ear. Hot breaths ghosted over the shell and arches, as his low purrs returned once he felt the stubborn body within his clutch starting to curl in and loosen up; it would have been romantic, on how the German just pitifully buried his pretty little face into the rugged expanse of his neck, but this Heavy was not a romantic. For his own humor, he allowed a polite silence to linger between them, even resuming the affectionate little pets through the soft midnight tresses. Perhaps the little bout of mercy reminded the good doctor of his old lover, how sweet. That needed to be broken out too.

 

“Don’t be my next project, cupcake.” He would rumble, lips curling into a prideful sneer when he heard a nonsensical little mumble resonating against his jugular. To drive his torment in a little deeper, he pressed a small kiss to the pale lobe, and to his glee the kneading against his chest grew a bit deeper in that split moment. He kept his face close and body curled into the rather intimate embrace as he mused in low chuffs while scratching along the scalp.

 

“I am a forgiving man, but the boss ain’t...and I never had a proper chance to see your...qualifications.”

 

His arm was long enough to comfortably reach over the armrest to scoop up his shotgun. His grin grew wider when he cocked the barrel and drew the German’s attention out of his little safety nest to investigate.

 

“How about we start out fresh, right here.”

 

Medic felt his mouth go dry as he tried to make sense of the malevolent tool in this moment, though his gaze was quick to shift when he heard a tiny gust from behind his back and the soft clinking of metal against concrete. His eyes then went to the serene blankness of Heavy’s face as he pulled back from the hold, and then to the gun again. That’s when he noticed that the goggles were instead oriented to some point past his face instead of being trained on him, to which he anxiously turned to follow.

 

Before him sat a large metal cage, containing his precious doves with his darling splattered Archimedes in the center.

 

Taking advantage of his horrified silence, the Heavy lovingly slipped the weapon in the German’s hands and patted his shoulder.

 

“Show me your teeth.”

 

 


End file.
